


Rolling Wheels

by bluesmash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesmash/pseuds/bluesmash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark road, a raging storm, and one too many drinks… and then Sammy’s back. </p>
<p>Its always been a story about two brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rolling Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> *Set six months after Swan Song – but in this fic, Sammy never appeared at the end of that final episode.

__ Pearls and Swine Bereft Of Me  
Long And Weary My Road Has Been  
I Was Lost In The Cities  
Alone In The Hills  
No Sorrow Or Pity For Leaving I Feel 

__ I Am Not Your Rolling Wheels  
I Am The Highway  
I Am Not Your Carpet Ride  
I Am The Sky  
  
Friends And Liars Don't Wait For Me  
Cause I'll Get On All By Myself  
I Put Millions Of Miles  
Under My Heels  
And Still Too Close To You  
I Feel 

_ (Audioslave) _

** Rolling wheels **

He clutches the wheel as though he’s holding on to the edge of a pit… _the_ pit… and he can feel himself sliding over the edge. Searing heat scorching his skin as he dangles over the mouth of hell… except he’s not the one screaming… it’s Sammy… and his brother… his _baby_ brother is looking back at him like he’s so scared and brave and fucking heroic…

_ It’s okay Dean… it’s gonna be okay… I’ve got him _

… and then he’s gone.

_ No! _

A bone jarring jolt and Dean gasps and twists the wheel, slamming the brakes on and making the Impala come to a shuddering skidding halt on the shoulder of the road in the middle of nofuckwhere USA.

The loneliness and guilt stretch out in front of him along the highway as far as the eye can see.

He knows he’s losing it. Hell he lost most of it six months ago when Sam danced with the Devil and then took him all the way home and saved the godamned world. Kid brother’s aren’t supposed to die like that but it’s taken this long for the haze to clear enough for him to understand that the grief has rotted right through his heart and all he’s got left is twisted metal rattling inside. 

_ sounds like a piece of Lego rattling in the vents _

Lightning flashes and there’s a big squall coming but he’s weathered worse, and he sits and stares out through the windscreen as the wind picks up and the first large fat raindrops splatter on the glass. The car grows cold quickly, temperature draining away with the last of the sunlight behind dark and angry clouds that light up like the muzzle of a gun, bright and fast. 

“Storm’s coming.”

It’s more out of a habit that will never die… not after all those years and all those highways… and he looks to the passenger seat for an answer but he’s met with empty leather that he swears has been shaped to fit Sam’s body if he looks hard enough. And he does.

The air is suddenly charged, boiling energy that’s like breathing wildfire and it gets stuck in his lungs.  The ache comes up from his chest and hurts like a bitch… sudden clarity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be… before it pours from his mouth in a sob that shakes his whole body.

_ Sammy s’okay I’m here… I’m here… I’m not gonna leave you _

Lurching from the car, Dean staggers hand over hand along the sleek black metal as though he needs it to steady his steps. It’s the only constant he has left and he won’t give it up… won’t relinquish his hold on the memories… Sam’s voice still echoes in time with the rolling wheels.

_ Sam’s still gone though _

The key slides into the lock and he reefs the trunk open, wedging it steady and moving supplies and rifles out of the way. Sam’s Ithaca is right there, unused for close on eight months now... and he is keeping count.  Dean keeps Sam’s Taurus with his Browning, locked and loaded and close, just in case because he’s always been a good boy scout, a good soldier... in some other lifetime, a good son. 

He finds what he wants, what he needs, and grasps the bottle in his hand as he slams the lid closed before he gives himself a chance to look too closely at Sam’s duffel bag in the far recess. He’s never touched it, never unpacked it or rifled through it. 

Some things have to stay the same… unchanged in the chaos.

One hand is braced on the closed trunk when his phone rings, startling shrill noise amidst the deep growl of thunder and heavy air. He ignores it like he normally does. There’s no point answering when he can’t tell Lisa he’s alright anymore... not since he left two months ago, maybe three now but it makes no difference. 

He had tried for Sam, really fucking tried his best. He’d promised after all, and Lisa and Ben were good people... too good for the likes of someone who couldn’t pretend to live when they were already dead on the inside. 

He couldn’t even shed a tear when he left.

Dean laughs out loud at that because he’s walked out dried eyed on the only chance he’ll ever get at normal but here he is holding back the tears because the fucking passenger seat is empty... six fucking months of empty… but then he’s never claimed to be the poster child for normal and well adjusted. 

He is after all a Winchester, true and through.

There’s no warning except for the sudden wind that gusts across his body cold and driven and then the rain is falling, pelting down intense and freezing him from the outside in. The sudden chilling numbness feels so good because for a minute it drowns out everything else. Ice cold peace but he’ll take what he can get because it doesn’t happen often.

He climbs, slipping and sliding onto the trunk and leans back on the rear window, knees bent as he clumsily unscrews the lid of the bottle and tips it up. Bitter warmth, fire down his throat, as his body is drenched in the downpour. 

His clothes are soaked and heavy and his hair falls sodden across his eyes. He needs a haircut but then there’s no one to remind him of those little things and he doesn’t care to look into mirrors anymore. He stopped seeing anyone he knew or liked in the reflection a long time ago.

The thunder rolls deep and menacing, throwing down its might in loud drumbeats that thrum through his body and shake his bones. He closes his eyes and tips the bottle up until he has to breathe through his mouth because the rain’s so hard now it runs up his nose as he drinks. It cools the hot tears in his eyes.

Sammy had always liked storms. His brother had sat in the passenger seat for hours, body twisted to the window and long legs curled around each other like he was a human pretzel… 

_ Sam never looked comfortable even when he was _

…watching the chaos weave across the skies above as they chased the black bitumen below. 

Beautiful, raging, fearless power… but it was pure and it bore no malice… just natural destruction.

Dean’s head hit the back window of the car as he drained the last of the whiskey and then let his hand fall to his chest, the bottle a solid weight on his ribs. The rain pooled in his closed eyes and he could taste it sweet in his mouth...whiskey and water.

The destruction is all around him now and the thunder and lightning come together like soul mates, synchronised and simultaneous. There’s a crack nearby and his skin prickles as the electricity bites through the air and the smell of ozone sizzles through the rain. It smells like sulphur.

_ Fire and brimstone _

He’s up and moving then because the alcohol’s not doing its job now and the storm is taking him back to too many places… back to conversations that shouldn’t still be this clear in his head. He’s lost so many things but his memory just won’t fucking quit sometimes.

_ You know I’m not coming back _

_ You gotta promise not to try to bring me back _

His hands are so numb it takes him four tries to reopen the trunk and the edge of the metal feels likes it’s slicing through his fingers as he throws the empty bottle inside… Sammy hates it when he litters… and grabs another. The boy scout thing really does pay off sometimes.

“FUCK YOU SAMMY!”

His words are screamed loud into the chaos and then torn away from his mouth by the howling wind as though it feels the need to claim his pain within its ether… add his anguish to its own fury.

His hip slides along the car, one hand outstretched until he reaches the driver’s door and then he’s falling inside in a tangled puddle of wet clothes and battling the invisible hand of the wind to close the door. 

The car shakes and it’s almost like the storm’s banging its fist on the roof eager to get inside and he sits for a minute panting and shaking before he fumbles his jacket and overshirt off and throws them in the back… skin red raw and stinging where he’s scraped and pulled the clothing off. There was nothing gentle about anything he did these days.

“M’sorry Sammy… m’sorry… didn’t mean to say that… m’sorry… m’so sorry.”

The bottle finds its way to his mouth… some things are like a muscle memory… and the alcohol hits his stomach like lead and he coughs into the back of his hand before capping the bottle and wedging it between his thighs. All the better to drink and drive.

His phone rings again… he should’ve drowned it outside… and he gets it out of his pocket to turn it off but he hesitates for a minute. 

He knows he could hear Sam’s voice if he wanted, right now, voicemail doesn’t wear out apparently. He’s listened to it a few times now, maybe hundreds… some random words that don’t matter because it’s the nuance and the timbre and familiarity of that voice that he needs, craves. Hates himself for wanting.

 It also tears him apart each and every time. It’s too easy to pretend that Sam’s right there. 

Dean can hear him grinning as he speaks, eyes rolling as he huffs and tells Dean that he’s gonna call him when he’s finished his research… except Dean knows he can’t .

Sammy’s in hell and he can’t come to the phone right now.

Swiping the water away from his face and eyes… must be rain because it can’t be tears… he shoves the phone in his jacket and keys the ignition, ignoring the uncomfortable chill of heavy denim on his legs and soaked thin cotton on his chest.

There’s nowhere to go but follow the black ribbon of tar… it’s what he does best… and he needs to move now with all the sudden desperation of someone who is either chasing the storm or running from demons. 

Not that anyone could tell the difference. Not that anyone would care anymore.

His hands grip the wheel again although he glances down quickly to check because he still can’t really feel his fingers too well but it’s all good… this is home and as close to peace as he’ll ever find.

_ …what would you rather have… peace or freedom? _

The heavy car fishtails on the bend but he backs off the juice a little then accelerates coming out onto the straight. The storm is right beside him, all around him, and it’s a real beauty now as it distorts the red and gold of sunset with purple black hues interspersed with silver bolts of energy.

Sammy would’ve liked this one.

Sheets of water are hitting the windscreen now and the wipers are on full blast but don’t seem to be doing anything more than giving him a few seconds at a time to glimpse the headlights and get his bearings… but that’s all he needs.

Moving one hand from the wheel he huffs on his fingers, breath warm and tingling on cold skin as he flexes them before unscrewing the cap off the whiskey. He grips the neck of the bottle and takes one long gulp and then another, careful to keep both eyes on the edge of the darkness as the headlights stab through it.

The car peaks a rise and there’s a jolt and a skid as it descends, traction momentarily lost as the tyres aquaplane but he knows to ride it out... heart skipping wildly as the steering goes to hell with nothing for the rubber to grip on the road but water and it’s hard to resist the brakes… and then he’s past the worst and running solid again. 

Back in control.

He glances out the driver’s window and the storm’s still right there, running with him as though it‘s a race. He knows he won’t win but it’s good to have the company for a change… he usually prefers to be by himself these days.

There’s a movement in the glass and he squints because he could’ve sworn it was in the car… in the empty seat beside him and that’s just not possible… that’s fucking insane even for him.

“You are not insane Dean, far from it.”

 “FUCK!”

The wheel follows his hands as he jerks around to the sound of a voice… that voice… and it couldn’t be real… he’s done with all that crap… devils and angels and brother’s in hell… but there’s something… someone there even though his mind is now filled with screeching tyres and bending metal and breaking glass. 

And then nothing as the wheel kisses his forehead and sends him into the dark.

0000000000000000000000000000000

Light and bright pain flare inside his head, his body and then they’re gone… blink of any eye gone, just like that.

He opens his eyes and he’s just sitting there clutching the wheel and the rain is still pouring and the thunder is still rattling through his bones… lightning flashes and he jumps… fucking lifts right out of his seat and his back hits the cold metal of the door as he jerks away.

“Dean? “

The art of breathing seems to have escaped him along with the power to form a coherent sentence. His fists however make up their own mind instead as they swing wildly at the angel sitting beside him. 

He always was better at actions than words. 

One hand seems to hit a block of concrete before he is pushed back and held there by nothing he can see.

“Dean.”

“Get… get th’fuck away from me… lemme go.”

“Not until you hear what I have to say.”

“What the hell just happened?”

“You crashed your car.”

“Your fault… you don’t just appear… it’s been… fuck… you don’t fucking do that after all this time you fucking prick.”

Ice blue eyes regarded the half empty bottle on the floor. “Your car is fixed, you are fixed… and sober.”

Dean laughed, bitter and hollow. “Yeah Castiel… I’m just fucking peachy. Now get the hell outta my car.”

“Your brother needs you.”

“Don’t you… don’t you dare talk about Sam… you have no right… he went on a suicide mission for you and your God… my brother went to hell to save everyone. And you and your righteous fucking God just left him there to burn.”

“And now he’s back.”

Dean feels the pain in his chest first and he’s shuddering around the ache as it rises up his throat and there’s sounds trying to come out of his mouth but they’re lost in a furious rush of anguish and anger.

“HE CAN”T GET BACK OUT!”

And the tears are falling down his face fast, like the water rushing down the windscreen but he’s lost all sight of the weather now. There’s a damn angel in his car that’s seen to that.

“He can’t… I couldn’t get him back out… promised… he made me promise…”

“Michael rode him out. They are both… damaged but alive. Joshua is removing Michael and tasked me with finding you. He thought you would want to tend to Sam once Michael is gone from him.”

“Sammy’s back? How… removing Michael… what… are they… ?“

He couldn’t overcome the tidal wave of emotion to find the words he needed and instead he reached out to the angel… he hadn’t reached out to anything for six months… arm trembling and seeking comfort or anything that might help ease this feeling of terror, heartache, guilt, love. 

Hope.

Castiel gripped his forearm and he felt warm for the first time in a long time.

“The amulet was glowing. Joshua knew they were back because the amulet around Sam’s neck was glowing. When he found them in the cemetery, Sam’s body was broken and unconscious but he fixed the physical injuries which would have been mortal on this earth. Michael is weak, near death and needs help to regain his angelic form.”

“And Sam…?”

“We do not know… he has not woken up.”

“He had the amulet?”

“Yes… you did not know?”

Dean shook his head and remembered the feeling of the metal leaving his fingertips as he dropped it in the waste bin in front of his brother… he closed his eyes shut against the guilt… and then they snapped open, green fire burning in their depths.

“Take me to Sam… please.”

“I will bring him.”

A lightening flash and then Castiel was standing outside the car, a large body held impossibly easy in his arms as though he was holding a small child.

Dean scrambled frantically out of the car, lungs burning because he might be holding his breath… and opened the rear door, eyes taking in the too still, too thin form of brother. Sammy was right there and his hand brushed against the pale skin of his brother’s face.

“M’here Sammy.”

Castiel placed Sam in the backseat… he never really fitted on that seat since he was thirteen, all arms and legs and messed up hair… Sasquatch.

 “Look after your brother Dean, we need to tend to Michael. I have made arrangements for you.”

Dean was standing in the rain beside the impala looking at Sam… and then he was standing in the rain outside a weatherboard cottage beside the Impala… still looking at Sam. That feeling of disorientation in his stomach that he remembered all too well.

“Cas…?”

He shivered and stood blinking… wondering if he was going to wake up from this dream… and then he surged forward, hands running over his brother’s arms and shoulders and then face cause he sure as hell… 

_ and wasn’t that ironic _

… wasn’t going to wake up if he could help it. 

Sam didn’t stir and Dean looked towards the house with the porch light glowing and back to his brother making his mind up when he realised that Sam was cold and wet and Gods knows what else. But then God had never really cared about the small stuff like keeping them safe and warm and Castiel was never one for being very practical.

“S’okay Sammy… I’ve gotcha now. M’gonna take care of you now. S’gonna be okay.”

Dean somehow scooped his brother up, Sam’s head lolling back bonelessly, and it broke Dean’s heart to see him this way. It used to take a lot to stop Sam’s momentum. 

Dean’s heart shattered into smaller pieces when the metal from the amulet glinted in the light and Dean could see where its mark had been scorched into the skin beneath it.

He staggered up the steps because even though Sam was thinner, he was still long and lanky and awkward… but the strain didn’t register as he fumbled with the doorknob because he was holding his brother in his arms and he never thought he would see him again. Not in this lifetime at least… and Dean would’ve speeded that process up to get back to his brother’s side as well but he’d promised Sam that he’d live. 

As far as Dean was concerned, slow death by whiskey really didn’t count against him.

The warmth and brightness of the room startled him and he paused for a second wondering if there were any more surprises… angels lurking in the closets… but the house seemed still and he had to put his brother down before his arms gave out. There was a good fire already burning in the hearth and he was just too thankful to question it.

Sam made no sound as Dean laid him gently down on the lounge. The long lounge that fit his body perfectly so maybe Cas had learnt practicality after all… and Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother… in awe, in exhaustion… maybe in thankful prayer but that wasn’t something he was going to admit to anyone.

“Hey Sammy… gonna get you outta these wet clothes kiddo.”

_ So much for practicality Cas _

Dean started pulling his brother’s arm out of the wet jacket… his skin was so cold… and then he pulled Sam up so he was leaning across his chest, head lying on his shoulder and just the feel of Sam’s weight on him made him begin to trust that this just might be real. 

This might be his to keep.

The older boy stopped for a few seconds, arms encircling his brother in a hug that he thought he’d never get the chance to feel again.

“S’okay Sammy I’m here… I won’t leave you now… not again… not ever again Sam.”

Dean can feel the hot tears spill down his face, and knows the rain is no longer an excuse but he doesn’t care, he’s got nothing to hide now. 

He throws the sodden jacket onto the floor and lays Sam back to unbutton his flannel which is just as cold and wet… he can hardly move his own fingers and stops to think … he needs blankets, gotta get Sam warm. 

It really shouldn’t be this hard to walk out of the room where he can’t see Sam… 

_ what if he’s gone when I get back? _

… but six months of separation and he’s running in a panic to the nearest room and thank God… 

_ no seriously,  thank God _

… it’s a bedroom and he drags quilts and blankets off the bed and into his arms… and then Sam’s still there… body motionless but it doesn’t matter cause he’s breathing. 

Dean knows he’ll worry about everything else later but for now, Sammy’s here and he’s breathing and after everything that’s gone before, for Dean… seeing is still believing.

Sam’s body is pliable under his nearly numb fingers… 

_ Sam’s here, Sam’s here with me _

…but he wrestles with the buttons on the flannel before the last of them pop away and roll onto the floor as his patience loses the war with his frustration. Sam’s body is the same yet different once the shirt has come off and he’s shocked and relieved at the same time. 

Sam often makes him feel like that… damn kid has no right to confuse him like that.

There’s almost bruises that look like they’re under the skin, just under the surface… like dark shadows that have been banished… they mottle Sam’s flesh everywhere he can see but he really doesn’t want to look too close. 

Dean knows what they are… been there done that.

_ claws and teeth and cruel hands _

Suddenly he has to keep busy, keep moving, because he can’t think about Sammy like that. 

_ screaming _

“C’mere Sam, let’s get you warm.” 

And his voice is scratched, broken glass on gravel as he pulls the quilt around his brother’s shoulders. Sam’s not even shivering but he feels like ice.

Sam’s shoes and socks and jeans come next and Dean works methodically. It’s not like he hasn’t done this before when his brother’s been tanked, slurring and swaying on his feet like a freaking giant oak about to topple over. 

Sam’s always been a passionate drunk, all hands and hugs and I love you Dean you’re my brother. It’s those things that he’s missed most… the stupid little things… 

_ bitch… jerk _

… that had defined them.

“Okay buddy, nearly done.”

He slides Sam’s boxers off… and it’s ridiculous that Sam’s been in fucking hell but he’s still wearing boxer shorts. 

Somewhere in his head he knows it’s just Castiel, putting things back how he remembers, restoring things to how they were as best he can. 

But Sam’s naked flesh… and he sees, knows, hates, that the ghost bruises and marks cover Sam’s whole body… is testament to the fact that things will never be the same.

Even Dean understands that.

It doesn’t mean he likes it… but he knows it.

0000000000000000000000000000000

Sam had started shivering. Violent shudders that travel along his torso and then spread along his long limbs before starting another lap. Dean feels like its something good, maybe progress… although let’s face it, he won’t entertain the possibility that it’s a bad sign. 

All Dean knows is that he ran out into the night, heart in his mouth, and grabbed duffel bags and weapons… cause you can never be too careful and no one is coming near his brother again. 

Dean was back by Sam’s side in under five, panting and still soaked to the bone because he hadn’t bothered to look after himself. How he felt, physically or otherwise was never high on his list of priorities.

Sam had been shivering when Dean had felt his pulse for the thousandth time… better to be safe… so only then did he change his own clothes in case he was making Sam colder. 

Sometimes they affected each other like that.

After a while, there’s small noises… whimpers, gasps… that start accompanying the tremors. Sam’s voice sounds so young, like he’s ten years old and miserable because he’s been sick in bed for days and all he wants is to get out of the house, go to school… 

_ damn geekboy _

… but he gets Dean sitting by his bedside instead. Cool washcloth on his fever and humming Metallica to pass the time… and Dean never even teased him about the way he fell asleep on his big brother’s lap. 

Dean remembers the moments like that as though they happened days not years ago.

This is different though and the sounds become more frantic along with the movements. More like struggling now rather than shivering. He moves closer and kneels beside Sam’s head... not that he was far away to begin with… and his hand moves through the brown unruly strands of hair that always wants to hide Sam’s eyes from the outside world.

“Shhhh Sammy… you’re okay now… you’re safe.”

Dean’s breath freezes in his chest because he can’t be sure but maybe Sam just moved into his touch… just a little… but it’s all he’s got and he’s gonna run with it because he knows Sam is in there, there’s no other option. 

You don’t get this close to something only to find out its all smoke and mirrors. You don’t.

He can’t.

Sam suddenly starts gasping. Full on panting breaths like he’s running some race, maybe running for his life because he’s not stopping… not slowing down and his hands are pushing at the air, the covers, pushing at Dean’s hands… desperate to get away.

“Sammy s’me... it’s just me… you’re okay.”

Things are escalating and Dean is breathing hard now himself. He doesn’t know where this is going and he uses his body over Sam’s to try and control the thrashing arms and writhing body. He cops a palm in his throat and a knuckle in his eye and fuck Sam’s still so strong. 

Sam still thinks he has to keep fighting.

There’s not many things that shock Dean Winchester these days. He’s seen too much, heard too much, felt too much and he just gets either pissed off and starts swinging or he doesn’t give a fuck… usually, lately… it’s the latter.

Except the scream that comes out of Sam’s mouth rattles right through his bones, heart, soul. It’s desperate and bloodcurdling and so fucking familiar. It’s the sound that’s haunted him nearly every night for six months. It’s even begun to creep into his daylight, and it’s exactly how he imagined it and that just makes it worse… real… fucking unbearable.

“Oh God Sammy… don’t… it’s over, it’s over baby… shhhhh, m’here, m’here now.”

000000000000000000000000000000000000

Dean loses time but it still seems to stretch on forever.

 It gets all tangled up in Sam’s strangled voice and it just threads around and around the raw sound until it disappears in the guttural noise... and then it’s gone.

He loses time.

And finally there’s silence… just them drawing breath… just them… how they should be.

He only realises he’s crying when he lifts his head and Sam’s chest…. it’s not shivering now… is wet and his eyes feel gritty and used. His back aches where he’s leaned over his brother’s body for so long… 

_ that time thing would come in handy sometimes _

… but all that matters is that Sam is calm and breathing and warm. He looks like he’s sleeping, except for the fact that his mouth is still partially open as though he ran out of sound and he’s just waiting for it to come back so he can start over.

Dean glances over at the fireplace, low crackling warmth, and he sees that the embers are glowing red black and they won’t last much longer. Neither will he because his eyes are drooping now and his body feels wrung out.

The wood is piled high in the metal box in the corner and he places as much as he can on the dying flames… 

_ piece by piece so the flames aren’t smothered _

… he can still hear his Dad’s voice and for once it’s not about the hunt, it’s about building something powerful and terrifying. It’s probably the reason he can stare into the flames for hours. Well that, and maybe he’s always been a little obsessed with fire.

He crawls back to his place by Sam’s side… where he’s always belonged… and leans back into the couch with a bone weary sigh that sounds more like the groan of an old man. 

He could’ve moved his brother to the bedroom but the warmth, the fire, is comforting and he’s no stranger to sleeping on the floor. At least this time he’s not passing out drunk and yeah Cas fixed his inebriation along with anything else that was broken in the angel induced crash. Waste of good whiskey that was but he doesn’t really need the numb now anyway.

The rain is still falling, pounding on the roof and when he listens he can still hear thunder in the distance. The storm’s run off and left him behind. He places one hand on Sam’s forearm. Every other piece of his brother’s skin is bundled up warm and tight but he needs something… 

_ to check for a heartbeat _

… to hold on to if he’s going to sleep.

0000000000000000000000000000000

There’s an explosion of noise and Dean startles awake, hands scrambling for a weapon automatically. Hunter’s instincts run thick and visceral in his veins but he’s quick to take in the room and recognise the storm has sought him out again but there’s no threat in the grey light of day. 

As he turns his head towards the pile of blankets at his back… no Sam either.

He’s up and moving, wide eyed and disbelieving…

_ how could you lose him again _

… but then there’s a whimper and a movement in the darkened corner by the front door. 

Treading slowly, carefully, he moves towards his brother’s naked form. Sam is curled up so tight and he’s shivering again. Dean feels like he’s approaching something wild and scared but it’s just Sam for fucks sake… and Sam’s eyes are open.

“Hey Sammy… it’s okay… you’re safe now.”

Dean’s halfway there now and he can see his brother’s eyes darting around the room, anywhere but on him, and then in a crouching unsteady run, Sam’s at the door and then he runs out into the storm.

Surprised at Sam’s reaction he’s half a dozen steps behind the younger boy. Dean’s had trouble staying ahead of him since Sam turned sixteen, all muscle and sinew and teasing smile… and then he’s standing in the rain because there’s nowhere else to go and all Sam had been doing was running home.

Sam’s kneeling in the mud, face and hands and whole body pressed up against the wet black metal of the Impala as though he’s been drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Like he just knows he has to be near it. 

Dean understands with the purest clarity what he has to do… he knows what Sam needs.

It takes him seconds to run back inside and then crash back out through the door, hunched over to keep the rain off the blankets as best he can. Sam needs to be warm and he throws the bundle in a heap into the backseat of the Impala. 

He sees Sam cringe when he moves so close so fast and opens the car door, and he was ready this time to give chase but he didn’t have to and Sam’s right there, cowering within arm’s reach.

“C’mere Sammy… s’okay… I’ve gotcha now. Let’s go home Sam.”

And he keeps on talking, low soothing voice because the words really don’t matter as his hands smooth over Sam’s rain drenched skin… he’s not fighting back now… and ease the younger boy up and into the backseat, climbing in after and closing the door.

The squeaky slam of the door muffle the outside sounds of rain and intermittent thunder a little and they’re both panting hard in the small space. Sam’s making those noises again… scared, fucking terrified… so Dean just starts doing what he’s always done. Pulls his brother in close, comforting, protecting.

Dean’s voice knows what to do… quiet, fond words of their past and their history… as he pulls blankets around Sam’s body and then shifts the long lean frame over his lap so he can still look into his brother’s face. Finally he’s rewarded with a lingering flash of dark hazel from beneath the soggy strands of hair and he smiles and uses his hand to clear the view.

As his hand moves across Sam’s face, the younger boy closes his eyes tight… Dean hates that he’s scaring his brother… but then as his breathing evens out, Sam struggles to move his arm from beneath the covers.

“Take it easy let me help you.”

He loosens the blanket a little and Sam’s hand creeps over the top, fingers curled up tight and then slowly unfurling, reaching… 

_ Dean’s too scared to breathe or hope or maybe both _

… and then they softly touch Dean’s shirt.

It’s like something clicks into place… if you touch it its real… and Sam’s against his chest then, arm thrown around his neck and face pressed close to his heart… warm breaths seeping through the damp flannel of Dean’s shirt to touch his skin.

“Sammy… oh God Sammy… missed you… missed you so much.”

They’re just clinging to each other then and Dean’s breath is hitching in time with Sam’s sobs… he’s never cried in Sam’s arms before. There’s pieces of him mending and healing and it hurts like a bitch but then Dean never expected to be glued back together… never thought he’d get back what he was sure he’d lost.

He pulls back a little… not too far but just enough… and gently lifts Sam’s chin with a finger because there’s still something he’s not sure about and it’s beginning to worry him. After all, that’s what big brother’s do when they’re not drowning in despair in the bottom of a bottle. 

Sam hasn’t spoken a word.

And sure it’s only been less than a day since he got Sam back he’s pretty certain… night hasn’t come round again unless he slept right through it. And it hasn’t been long since Sam woke but there’s something he sees in those hazel eyes and he can’t quite figure it out. Familiar but not quite Sam and he needs to know.

“Hey Sammy…”

There’s a lump in his throat as Sam turns his head and melts into his hand like he’s just remembering what it feels like to be safe. The movement makes the light reflect off the amulet and Dean’s eyes fall briefly to the scar tissue almost hidden underneath and he wonders if it had somehow helped save Sam in the end.

“… you okay? Can you tell me if you’re okay?”

Sam frowns at him like he’s just asked for something impossible and then his mouth is moving and his eyes fill with tears. Dean just wants to take it all back because he can wait as long as Sam needs… he can wait for an answer.

“Shhhhh… you don’t have to say anything okay… you don’t have to…”

“Dn… Dean… m’scared… don’t … don’t remember… I don’t…”

And then he’s hugging his brother back in and telling him it’s okay because of course he’s gonna be fucking scared and confused. Sam’s just come back from a lifetime in hell and Dean really doesn’t want to do the math to convert it to Hell Years. 

Ever.

Sam pulls away this time and he’s gulping and trembling with the effort to stop crying and Dean smiles encouragement at him, wipes tears away with the pad of his thumb. He looks so lost and young and Dean can’t remember Sam looking so vulnerable. 

One of Sam’s hands move tentatively to the too long, blond brown strands of Dean’s hair. It’s a question in the touch… Sam’s always noticed subtle changes. 

“Wh… when’ll Daddy be home Dean?”

And there it is.

That niggling worry that something was wrong… a little off… comes crashing in and floors him. But Dean can’t show the heartbreak that his brother… his Sammy… is broken because those dark hazel eyes are so full of hope and trust and they’ve already seen too much hurt and pain. Even if Sam doesn’t remember everything he’s been through right now, Dean does.

“S’just us for a while kiddo…” 

He’ll find a way to fill in the gaps later if he has to… not now. Now, Sam just needs to feel safe and loved and Dean will always give him that whatever the cost. Nothing else matters because at the end of the day Sam is back.

“… but that’s okay cause y’know I always look after you.”

Sam nods and leans back into his chest, arms clutching the older boy as Dean’s tears fall silently down his face. He’s glad in a way that Sam doesn’t remember all the agony and suffering he would have endured in hell… all the pain and loss in the years before.

He will gladly bear that burden of knowledge alone if it means Sam gets another chance.

There’s also a part of him that misses… mourns… the Sam that he had watched turn into a man. A piece of him that desperately needs the bond they had started to rebuild… but maybe in time, Sam will remember.

Maybe all it will take is the safety of home and the two of them together… just them and the rolling wheels.

**__ The End. **


End file.
